Chapter 13: On My Terms

Nobody said Beck's name that night.

Everybody thought it.

The sophomore's splint photo sat at the bottom of the team chat until one in the morning.

Then the senior typed what the rest of us were too scared to type.

"I can slide to lane. We need a real jungle. There's one on campus who already offered."

Nobody answered him.

Betsy rolled over in the dark.

"You're doing the face," she said.

"You can't see my face."

"I can hear it. It's the face from when you had to pick between two bakeries in high school and you made a pro and con list on a cake box."

"That was a good list."

"Callie. Just text him."

I didn't text him.

I took a napkin from the stack Betsy stole from the dining hall and wrote on it with her purple gel pen.

At seven I typed the first message I'd ever sent him as Beck.

"Hartwell dining hall. Eight. Bring a pen."

He wrote back in under a minute.

"Okay."

He was there at 7:41.

I'd been at the table by the waffle station since 7:30, so I'd be sitting down first.

He came in with wet hair and the gray hoodie and a highlighter, because he didn't own a pen.

The waffle boys saw him and went quiet.

Beck sat across from me.

"Hi," he said.

"Read this."

I pushed the napkin across the table.

He read it out loud, quietly.

"One. Sub only. Until her wrist heals. Then you're off the roster and it's no big deal."

"Two. No pity. If I make a bad call, you say it was bad. On comms. In front of them."

"Three. You tell me the truth about anything I ask. Any time. The first time I ask."

He stopped.

"There's a four."

"Read it."

"Four. No lemon bars at practice."

He looked up.

"That one's mean."

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